Edward Unconditionally Common Powers 3

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“Well, Winston. What do you think about Texas?” Edward drawled in his soft Georgia accent as he cast a sidelong glance at his best friend and constant companion.

Winston, a six-year-old English bulldog, didn't answer. He was far too busy hanging over the edge of the passenger door, his face in the wind, pink tongue lolling from the side of his gaping mouth, as Edward drove down the rural blacktop at sixty-five miles per hour.

“We're definitely not in Georgia anymore.” Edward sighed. “I've never seen so much livestock in all my life.” He shuddered. Another field of black cows dotted the rolling hills. “Although, I've always wanted a brown and white cowhide Louis Quatorze chair. It would be
très chic, n'est-ce pas
?”

Winston eyed him sadly.

“The only good thing about Texas is the cowboys. I do love me some cowboy.” Edward gave a low, “yum yum yum,” and wiggled his eyebrows at Winston.

Winston favored him with a soft
woof
, then returned to flying his tongue in the wind.

“You like them too, huh? Maybe you'll find a cow dog.”

Woof.

“Honestly, you'd probably have better luck out here than I would.”

Edward picked up the map he'd folded, laid it on the steering wheel of his Miata, and glanced at it. Spring Lake had been circled in red, and the road they were on had been highlighted in yellow.

Who'd ever heard of a Farm to Market Road? He'd exited I-10 westbound and turned south onto the two-lane road, all the while wondering where the market was or if he'd come to the farm by following the road to its end.

The idea of being on a farm gave him the heebie-jeebies. He was so
not
a
Country Living
kind of guy. More like
Metropolitan Design
. Sleek leather, minimalistic window treatments, grass-mat flooring. No livestock in the house.

Not
lace curtains, tacky multicolored chintz, and those god-awful oval rugs from the fifties.
So
Lucy and Desi move to Connecticut.

He shuddered again.

But duty called. Well, not exactly duty, but his mother, Lillian. When Lillian Rawlings Beauregard bellowed, Edward Paul Beauregard, the Third, answered with a controlled, if tight-lipped, “yes, Mother.”

And if Edward valued his trust fund, and he did, he did what he was told. He gave a silent but respectful, “fuck you,” to his late father for requiring Edward to reach forty before he inherited. As if at thirty, or now at thirty-five, Edward didn't know what he wanted to do with his life or that he'd outgrow being gay. Never mind that he'd never finished college or that he'd had numerous careers, each one more exciting than the last.

Who made the stupid rule that you had to do one thing for your entire life? Or even for a few years? Life was meant to be lived, not to wallow in a rut.

He'd be the first to admit he'd led an unconventional life. A wild life, even. Scads of parties, beaucoup champagne, madcap friends, overseas adventures, and numerous lovers. For his father, that was right where it had begun and ended.

Edward's lovers.

Like his latest debacle. No, he didn't always pick the best men. Okay, he
never
picked the best men.

“Can I help it if I'm drawn like a moth to the flame whenever there's a bad boy within reaching distance?” he asked Winston.

Woof.

Edward glanced at his dog. “You did
not
just roll your eyes at me.”

Woof.

“Since when have you started channeling my father?”

Woof.

Edward gave a long-suffering sigh.

With the gay half of Atlanta buzzing over Edward's latest spectacular breakup, and oh yes, they
always
had to be spectacular— this time in the middle of the dance floor at this season's gay black-tie ball— Edward needed a quiet place to lick his wounds. Hurt and embarrassed, Edward had crushed his slice of seven-layer chocolate Doberge cake in that cheating bastard Derek's face, whom Edward had taken into his heart and into his condo.

Secretly relieved to get out of town, Edward had made his excuses for the rest of the social season, packed his matching Louis Vuitton travel bags, and hopped in the convertible. Then he drove to Houston from Atlanta, with instructions from his mother to visit his grandmother and find out what was ailing her.

And heal her.

Chief of Police Jack Whittaker had the mother of all headaches. Again.

Sitting in his white unmarked patrol car, he rubbed his forehead as he leaned back against the headrest. He'd almost run off the side of the road when his vision blurred.

“Shit.” This was the third time in the last two weeks. Whatever was kicking his ass was getting worse, not better. Now his vision was being affected.

Fear crawled into his belly and scratched at his insides. A blind man couldn't be a cop, much less chief of police, and he was nowhere near old enough to retire. Hell, he wasn't even forty-five yet.

Jack glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Deep blue eyes. Deeper lines around them. A touch of gray at his temples.

There was no getting past it: he looked older.

“It ain't the years, boy, it's the miles.”

He'd seen a hell of a lot of miles, for damn sure.

Jack blinked, his vision cleared, but the headache pounded on. Opening his glove box, he pulled out a bottle of extra-strength pain relievers, popped two, and chased them down with a swig of cold black coffee.

He wouldn't be sitting out on this road if he didn't have so many men out with the flu. Having them come in and work their shifts had only spread it faster through the ranks. But whatever Jack had, it wasn't the flu.

On days like today, he hated his job.

When he'd pulled over, he'd been on his way back to the station at Spring Lake from a vandalism call that had turned out to be nothing more than a high school prank. Not to mention, this afternoon he had a budget meeting with the mayor.

As he'd sat there, the road had been as empty as his stomach. He put the cruiser into gear and checked for traffic in his rearview. A car appeared over the hill. His heart kicked up a notch, that familiar rush of the chase grabbing his gut. He waited, watching it eat up the road.

As the bright red Miata convertible passed him, its wind trail rocked his car. The guy had to be doing sixty— maybe sixty-five. In a forty-five.

With a growl, Jack flicked on his lights, hit his siren, slammed his foot on the gas, and fishtailed onto the road in pursuit.

“Hell and damnation!” Edward flicked his gaze to the rearview mirror.

A large white car with blue and red flashing lights followed him, and he could hear the wail of a siren. For a moment, he thought about not stopping but decided Texas wasn't the place to try to elude the cops. Didn't they use cattle prods here?

“You don't think that's the welcoming committee, do you?”

Woof.

“I didn't think so.” Edward slowed down and eased off the road as far as he could without going into a ditch big enough to eat a Buick.

He reached over, picked up his jacket, and fished out his wallet. Taking his proof of insurance and the registration papers from the glove box, he sat back and waited, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the wheel.

“You don't think Barney Fife was using gaydar, do you?” Edward chuckled as he watched the cop car pull behind him.

Winston scratched at the door.

“You need to go walksies, Winston?”

Woof.

Edward grabbed Winston's leash, dug under the red bandanna that decorated Winston's neck, and clipped the end to a leather collar. Getting out, Edward pulled on the leash, and Winston hopped down.

A deep, irritated voice came out of the air. “Driver. Get
back
in your vehicle.”

Edward waved at the cop to let him know it was all right and walked around the car with Winston. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain, Winston,” he intoned as the dog, head down, nose in action, sniffed his way along the grass at the side of the road.

“I said get back in your car. That's an order.”

Good Lord, there was no need to get pissy about it.

Edward called over his shoulder as the dog pulled him farther away, “My ID is on the seat if you need it. I just need to walk my dog.”

“No. No. No,” Jack muttered. This was
not
happening to him. He'd given that guy a direct order, and he wasn't used to being disobeyed. Jack shook his head, and the motion started the pounding again.

“Fuck!” He opened the car door, got out, slid his hat on his head, and put his hand on the butt of his semiautomatic. There was no way in hell he was going to take this crap from some... He stopped, doing a double take at the young man and his dog.

“What the— ” he muttered under his breath.

The man and the dog wore matching red bandannas tied around their necks. Jack blinked. The dog, one of those ugly-as-hell bulldogs, waddled down the side of the road. Immense balls swung with every step as he pulled his master after him like a cowboy holding on to a stubborn cow headed for the barn.

His owner wore the tightest dark blue jeans Jack had ever seen cover a man's behind. His ice blue shirt was Western cut, but the piping had brown leather fringe. At least, Jack thought it was leather.

“Oh my God.” Jack held back a snicker. Was this guy for real?

Jack headed to the car, leaned over the door, and picked up the packet of papers.

“Get over here. Now,” Jack ordered as he looked at each form. After checking the name, Jack tossed the registration on the seat. It matched the name on the insurance card, which he added to the pile.

He picked up the leather wallet. Soft, supple, it reeked of Italy and money. He had no idea how much it cost, but it was probably more than he'd spend on a good leather jacket. Looking up, he watched the driver approach and come around the car with the dog pulling hard on the leash and growling.

Jack looked at the dog and frowned, then up to the man's face. Early thirties, five feet ten inches, short black hair, and deep brown eyes that stopped Jack in his tracks.

The growling grew closer, louder, then white-hot pain erupted as the dog chomped down on Jack's ankle and shook his leg like a... well, like a dog with a bone.

“What the fuck!” Jack jumped back, dropped the wallet, and drew his weapon.

“No! Don't hurt Winston!” the guy yelled, lunged forward, and grabbed Jack's weapon arm.

Jack's mind screamed
ambush
, and his adrenaline kicked into overdrive. He hopped backward as he jerked his arm away from the man and tried to kick the dog off his leg at the same time. Everyone was growling, and everyone had a piece of him.

“Let go of me!” Jack shouted. “Stop it, or the gun might go off!”

“Don't shoot!” The man's grip tightened on his arm, now more frantic than before. Jack flexed his bicep and pulled the guy into him, his gun pointed at the sky.

Through gritted teeth, Jack said, “If you let me go right now and get this mutt off me, I won't shoot you both.” They weren't quite chest to chest; the guy was shorter than Jack by a good four inches. Jack wanted to kill the son of a bitch right then and there. Then the damned dog.

“Promise?” Breathy and soft, that one word shivered down Jack's spine and held him in its grip.

“I promise.” He had no idea why he was making promises to this man. He didn't have to promise a damn thing; he was the law.

The man let go and stepped away just as the dog shook Jack again, its massive head snapping from side to side. Jack hopped backward and his arms pinwheeled in the air. He lost his footing, went down on his side, hit his head on the ground, and a new wave of pain erupted as his elbow jammed down on the blacktop.